


diglossia

by barbiejedi



Category: Star Wars Legends: Outbound Flight - Timothy Zahn
Genre: Cheunh Language (Star Wars), F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-05
Updated: 2010-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:01:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22173715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbiejedi/pseuds/barbiejedi
Summary: Maris and Thrawn work on adjectives.
Relationships: Maris Ferasi/Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11





	diglossia

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Диглоссия](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24112159) by [Lodowiec](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lodowiec/pseuds/Lodowiec)
  * Inspired by [A real piece of art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15251607) by [Pureblood_Slytherin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pureblood_Slytherin/pseuds/Pureblood_Slytherin). 



> Originally posted on my fic LJ, battlehobbit, on 5 March 2010. Added to ao3 in Jan 2020 when I started reading the new!Canon Thrawn novels and got nostalgic for Thrawn/Maris. I've cleaned up a couple of grammar things that bug me now, but other than that I just pulled the html from my old post and dropped it here.
> 
> I'm kind of a language nerd with a Thrawncrush since the Legends days, and when I read Chapter 10 of _Outbound Flight_ I was convinced that Thrawn and Maris were bangin'. Or would have been, if this were a fandom marketed at a group other than twelve-year old boys. «Double-angle quotes» for spoken Chenuh, _italics_ for written Basic, "quotes" for spoken Basic. Also I tried a font trick in there that only works if you've got the [Aurek-Besh Hand](https://www.fontspace.com/boba-fonts/aurek-besh-hand) font installed and have "Show Creator's Style" enabled, but you can get by just with the italic thing otherwise. No beta, all mistakes are my own, there are far too many commas, etc and so on.

He tries a lesson on Chenuh calligraphy, lets them borrow his brushes and ink. The ink is the deep reddish purple of dried blood, which startles Maris. He explains that it is traditional, that to Chiss eyes under the light from their home star it breaks into a bewildering array of colors. The ink is expensive, made from the crushed shells of a rare gastropod that lives in pockets of water under the glaciers. Car'das is politely interested by ultimately unimpressed, and Thrawn confesses that the elegant writing system is not a skill they are likely to need, as it is used mostly for manuscripts for the official libraries. Maris persists, and Thrawn agrees to continue teaching her as long as it doesn't interfere with his other duties.

He manages to procure a smaller set of brushes for her, and a bottle of synthetic ink. She practices on sheets of recycled flimsi in her spare time, and imagines he will be pleased with her progress. Between lessons she knocks on the door of the commander's quarters, anxious to show him her latest attempt. He is seated at a desk, and she presents the image to him proudly. He offers a small smile in praise, and then catches a smudge of writing on her palm-- catches her wrist, turns her hand, pushes back her sleeve, sees where she has used the ink to trace crude transcriptions of Cheunh words in cramped Aurebesh. His expression clouds, one eyebrow raises in question. 

Her eyes drop, cheeks flushing. «It help remember,» she stammers.

«Helps ME remember,» he corrects absently, gaze still locked on her arm. "Why this way?" he asks in Basic. "Why not use your datapad?"

"I don't like looking up words," she replies. "It slows me down."

"And doing this helps you to remember?" he asks again.

«It does.»

«I see.» He purses his lips, and she wonders if she has offended him. «It will stain.»

She shrugs. «I don't mind.»

He studies her for a long moment, then rolls up the cuff of his left sleeve, offers her his wrist. "Adjectives," he says. "Please."

Maris pulls out her small brush set, the jar of synthetic ink. She circles around to the other side of the desk where he sits, takes his hand gently and loops the word _honorable_ around his wrist. Then _observant_ and _honest_ and she pushes the sleeve back further until the she can add _courteous_ and _intuitive_. She bites her lip, risks looking up into his eyes. They glow, and hold her fixed. "That's all I have room for."

He examines the handful of words and nods, satisfied. «Come,» he says, rising and beckoning her to follow. «I will find you a larger canvas.»

She is not surprised when he leads her to his private room, thinking he intends to get something from his personal collection. The surprise comes when she finds him hanging up his uniform jacket, chest bare. "The Jedi," he says, sitting down on the bed. «Tell me of them. Write.»

She places a hand on his chest, pushes back gently until he is horizontal. She climbs onto the sleeping mat and kneels beside him, starting where she left off with the sensitive blue skin of his inner elbow. _The Jedi are guardians of peace_ she writes, left hand braced beside his head as she dips the brush in ink. His eyes do not follow her hands, but remain locked on her face, her lip where she bites, her brow as it furrows in concentration. Aurebesh drips onto his collarbone, letters brush the hollow of his throat before slipping down his chest. She pauses, inks the brush again, the story moves back up, across to his other arm, tickling his elbow before spiraling down to his forearm, wrapping around his fingers. He lifts his hand, takes the brush from her, rolls until they are lying side by side.

He pushes the hem of her shirt up, starts with a single symbol on her waist, «woman», before expanding it with adjectives that crawl laterally across her belly, a complex series of interwoven symbols that tickle. He uses one hand to steady her as he writes, and she has to remember to breathe. He inks the brush again and goes back to the noun, this time branching upward with adpositions of time, of place, of circumstance. He whispers as he writes and she closes her eyes, feels the syllables as they skate across her skin. The coolness of the ink fades as it dries, and she wonders why he, a master of calligraphy and lover of art, does not seem to create any of his own.

When she asks, he tilts his head and admires the lines he has made. «Others create,» he answers. «I study.»

«You combine,» she replies, and in Basic, "Synthesize."

He nods. "But I do not create."

«Why?» she asks, taking his hand, bringing it up to her cheek. «You are smart. You know beauty.»

Red eyes focus on her face, so intently that she blushes. «No imagination. I see only what is there.»  
  
  
**********  
Thrawn is right about the ink. It is weeks before the marks finally begin to fade away, and some of them never disappear completely.


End file.
